


The dedications of Baze Malbus

by Ninjaninaiii



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Beach Episode, Domestic Fluff, Food, M/M, honestly this was just an excuse to write a silly happy thing, sort of adopted children, sort of husbands, the children are actually children
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-21 11:50:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10684722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ninjaninaiii/pseuds/Ninjaninaiii
Summary: Baze Malbus is a dedicated man. To his children, to his work, to the elaborate misunderstanding that has wound its way around him for twenty years.





	The dedications of Baze Malbus

**Author's Note:**

> i'm so sorry I changed tenses...... fucking everywhere... @myself what is this

Bodhi is nominated for the task. Kay and Jyn are braver than him, but they are also terrible at being human beings, and so they nominate Bodhi, who everyone knows is a good human. 

Bodhi gets almost to Chirrut’s door before he realises that the man is blind, and will not be able to read the note he was about to slip under the door. 

Bodhi is not sure whether this tells more about him, or about the two other children who put him up to the task.

-

The old woman behind the counter lets out a soft laugh when she hands Chirrut the wrapped book, putting her pen back in a pot behind the desk. “I hope your partner likes it.”

Chirrut grins, tucking it under his arm. “He will.”

-

“Something’s wrong with my eyes…” Baze can feel himself roll his own before he even turns to the dude who’s sidled up next to him in the bar. It’s such an old line, it almost makes Baze nostalgic. He turns, if only to see what kind of cocky fuck could think he could flirt with Baze so obnoxiously. “Oh yeah?” Baze asks, “How’s that?”

Baze does a spit-take. A literal spit-take. He has taken a sip of his drink to seem uninterested, but then simultaneously hears this man’s words, and sees the white cane. “I can’t take them off of you.”

That is how Baze and Chirrut meet.

-

“Ever since my wife died, it’s never been the same.”

Baze has left Chirrut alone with the kids, Bodhi, Cassian, Jyn, Kay, for little more than three minutes, and Chirrut has begun the tale that makes most of the kids they teach go very, very quiet. 

Chirrut wears black, usually adorned with red, or maybe navy, but it is hardly noticed until Chirrut tells this story. “My wife, Jessica. She died young…”

Baze does not have to look through the open door from the kitchen to tell that the kids, (Kay excluded) will be tearing up. 

-

Baze can’t remember the first time it happened. He thinks it is covered over by shame and embarrassment, his mind pushing it far from reach to save him from reliving the constant shame it causes him. 

He can’t remember the exact words, but he can remember the look. He can remember, clearly, Chirrut’s face, the first time he thought Baze had called him ‘Churro’. 

They had thought it at the same time. A nickname. A cutesy, relationship nickname. It was like cupcake, or muffin, or honey, or any other variety of food-based terms of endearment. 

Baze thinks he might have been about to say ‘Churros, I fancy churros,’ except he had caught on the first word when Chirrut had turned, and had so obviously thought, ‘holy shit, Baze has given me a nickname’. 

And Baze would not be the person to tell Chirrut that that expression, that expression of disbelief, of adoration, had been based on a misunderstanding.

But  _ damn  _ if it wasn’t an embarrassing turn of events. Baze was wholly uncomfortable with any kind of public display of affection, starting with as small an incident as pet names.

But, here they were, in this awkward situation, with no way out but for Baze to wake up, every morning, and to think of what new word he would replace Chirrut’s name with that day.

-

Baze did not realise that the children had arrived for their lesson until they crowded around him in the kitchen, watching with awe as he laid small disks of pastry in his hand, spooned vegetable mix into it, wet the edges with water and folded it into a crescent moon-shaped dumpling. 

He does it three more times before he sighs, asks if the children have washed their hands, and sprinkles flour on each outstretched pair (Kay excluded.) He teaches them how much mixture to use (Jyn overfills, Bodhi underfills,) how much water to use (Jyn too little, Bodhi too much,) and how to press together the edges to get a nicely folded edge. Jyn is not patient enough for symmetry, Bodhi does not press hard enough to seal them, but Cassian, who has filled, wetted and plaited, places his six perfect dumplings before Baze. 

Baze inspects them, nods, then places them on the plate half-filled with his own. 

This makes Jyn and Bodhi go very quiet, makes their heads bow as they concentrate on forming perfect edges in tense silence. 

“Dumplings!” Chirrut says as he comes in, head tilting slightly to locate the sound of Baze. “I love dumplings.” Chirrut sits himself next to Kay and sighs. “Did I ever tell you about my wife’s dumplings?” 

Bodhi shakes his head, then backs it up with a small, eager “no?”

“My wife, Sarah, rest her soul-”

“Sarah?” Bodhi says to himself, as if unsure. He turns to Jyn, but she just shrugs before focusing back on crimping the dumplings.

Baze uses the distraction Chirrut has caused to move some of Jyn and Bodhi’s crooked dumplings onto the plate his and Cassian’s dumplings rest.

-

It was hard not to repeat words… A small part of him knew that, after a decade of this bullshit, waking every morning with Chirrut in his bed, that the man would not care, nor, for that matter, realise, that Baze had repeated a word or two. But Baze would know. And even if this was founded on the biggest mistake Baze had ever made in his life, he would stand by his decision. From pumpkin to honey, from my rock to my love, from churro to pea to pearl to berry. 

One day, Baze thought, as he did every morning as he woke to the sight of Chirrut, smiling, still asleep, drooling onto Baze’s pillow, Baze would tell him about the accident. Chirrut would laugh, likely for a fortnight, before freeing Baze of the daily chore. Chirrut would most definitely not let it die, he might call Baze by a series of ridiculous names for years in retribution, but it would save… this. Baze walked the imaginary supermarket he had built in his brain, calculated and formulated. ‘Lemongrass.’

-

Chirrut kisses him, that night at the bar. It is quick, and tastes surprisingly sober for how Chirrut has been acting all night, but Baze does not mind it, finds Chirrut magnetising. 

Baze tucks his hair behind his ears, unsure what else to do. Chirrut has left, left with whoever he had come with, but has left Baze with his number. 

-

Chirrut has been a pain the ass, for some godforsaken reason, since the godawful time in the morning they’ve had to wake up. The kids have a competition today, and for whatever reason, Chirrut demands that everyone assemble in their training room at the asscrack of dawn.

It means Baze must think of the nickname on the spot, with less than three hours sleep.

When Chirrut goes to prepare the kids their lunches (Baze has already made the actual lunches, but Chirrut demands that the kids prefer his way of assembling the items to Baze’s,) Baze takes the moment to sit on their wooden floor and slip in a nap. 

When he wakes up, Bodhi is sat across from him, cross-legged, crying.

Baze’s first instinct is to look for Kay, but their mouth opens, indignant, instantly berating Baze for assuming, with no evidence, that it is them that caused Bodhi’s tears.

“What?” Baze asks, pushing his hair out of his eyes and for the billionth time wishing he could shave it. He hopes he can get this under wraps before Chirrut arrives and inflates the situation. 

“Baze,” Bodhi cries, “Is Chirrut going to forget about you, too?”

“What?” Baze asks again, far too old, and far too tired to know what’s happening.

“Chirrut, he keeps forgetting about his dead wife. Is he going to forget about you too?”

Baze sighs, which morphs into a yawn. He flicks Bodhi’s forehead to get the snotty kid out of his space, before standing. “Stay here. I need to talk to my significant annoyance.”

-

Though Baze’s fringe is pinned back in place, stray strands keep falling forward as they kiss, forming curtains that Baze must push back, with a constant, aggravated sigh. 

He has only known Chirrut for a month, but this is not the first time they have been in Chirrut’s bed, Baze over Chirrut, careful not to put his full weight on Chirrut, careful to be slow, to allow the man to set the rules.

Chirrut, while not hesitant, seems to enjoy going slow, so Baze does. 

Then, Baze stops, and looks at Chirrut, and makes a decision. 

-

The bar is Baze’s favourite, has been for years since Chirrut found him there. Baze does not drink much, but he will spend an hour or two watching a match in the bar with a bottle of beer, just to feel invisible. It is comforting, to fit into a place, to seem like just another person. He does not speak to anyone there, but they know him now. The men by the pool table will give him a nod when he takes his seat, he bartender will pull out his beer without a word, will take his money, will slide over the nuts. 

Baze doesn’t care much for the sports they play on the television, either, but he will let it tide over him, let himself be enthralled by whether the red team or the blue team is running whichever way they’re supposed to be going. He will let himself cheer, or shake his head, when a goal is scored, a ball is dunked, a ball goes flying… it is not hard to feel his heart pick up when the people around him scream, and cheer, and celebrate.

Chirrut hasn’t talked to him for a week, so Baze is at the bar, and he has, for the first time, ordered a second beer. The bartender does not raise an eyebrow, but he does not take Baze’s money.

“Wife kicked you out?” The man asks, not really expecting an answer. “She’ll get over it.”

Baze does not want to talk about it, so he does not correct the man, simply accepting the beer and taking a sip.

Another man, sat next to him, claps him on the shoulder, eyes never leaving the TV screen. This simple, wordless support is why Baze feels comfortable here. He is not forced to speak, and these men do not really care for his pain, but they will acknowledge it, allow him to form the conclusion he has already faced: that he will have to apologise. 

He goes home, to his own home, that night, and sleeps. He knows he has to apologise, but he will allow himself a night to wallow.

-

“My wife always said that she would take me to the sea…” 

Chirrut and Baze bookend the children as they sit on the pier, watching the waves crest, watching the way the blue glimmers in the sun. It’s still only the start of spring, so it is not hot, but it was cheaper this way, so they are each lapping at an ice cream, huddled together against the ocean breeze, their parkers hugged around them. 

Bodhi and Chirrut have those rainbow coloured icelollies, the child eating his like a sensible human, the adult either making an obscene attempt on purpose, or because he is, in most ways, more of a child than those they took care of.

Jyn’s three flavoured scoops of icecream form a precarious tower, covered in a bubblegum flavoured blue syrup that Baze had objected to, only to have Chirrut overrule him. Baze knew that it would be him, and not Chirrut, scraping a hyperactive Jyn off of the walls later, and he was already mentally preparing himself for it. 

Cassian had opted for a simple vanilla softserve, and Baze a mango sorbet icelolly. Kay, as ever, didn’t want what anyone else had, and had bought a thing of chips instead, despite their just having had lunch. 

“If only Jillian was here to see this,” Chirrut continued, casting a wistful glance into the horizon.

Bodhi, sat next to Baze, looked up at him, already beginning to tear up. Baze sighed, caught Kay’s eye, and tilted his head at Chirrut.

Kay smiled, then gave Chirrut a hard shove into the sea.

-

The two men, drenched and chilled in seawater, sat, wrapped in picnic blankets and shivered. Baze had jumped in after Chirrut, almost immediately, knowing full well that Chirrut could swim, but not wanting to risk anything because he made assumptions.

Baze had already made assumptions that day, and he was already suffering the consequences. Ever the mother hen, Baze had packed spare clothing for each of the children, knowing that the sea, the ice-cream, the ketchup, the beach, in general, was a treacherous place for children to be. This did, of course, include Chirrut, who had been the first to trade his usual robes for an eye-searing orange dad shirt and jeans. 

What Baze had not planned for was, of course, that he would be at all partaking in the getting messy. So, while Chirrut changed into clean, dry clothes, Baze felt his own cling to his skin. He had at least had the foresight to remove his coat, so he had this, at least, to warm himself in. 

Thankfully, it was a pebble beach, no sand in sight to stick to his skin.

-

When Baze comes back from the bathroom, Chirrut is crying.

Baze has not known the man long enough to know how to calm him, nor to have an inkling about what has happened to make the man react this way. 

He goes to Chirrut, unsure whether proximity will make the man worse, or whether keeping the space between them sends the wrong signals. He does not know whether Chirrut will find comfort in him being here, or in him leaving. 

“What can I do?”

Chirrut’s head lifts like he is honestly surprised to find Baze standing there. Baze comes forward, unsure of what he should say, or do, to let Chirrut feel comfortable. He kneels before Chirrut, and, after a moment, rests his head against Chirrut’s chest. After a moment, Chirrut wraps his hands around Baze’s back. Then, even slower, Chirrut stops crying, and presses his forehead against Baze’s. Chirrut brings a hand up from Baze’s back to Baze’s head— then freezes.

“It was getting annoying,” Baze says as Chirrut pulls back, both hands now on Baze’s close-shaved head, fingers mapping the plane as if scouring for scars. The look on Chirrut’s face is no-where near happy. 

-

Kay does not want a stick of rock, or a small turtle made out of a shell as a souvenir. Kay wants a glass bottle of violently coloured sand.

Bodhi and Jyn are watching a natural geographic video they’ve found about clams on youtube in the car home. Cassian is watching the world from the window. Kay is sat behind Baze with their glass bottle of sand.

Baze catches Chirrut looking into the rearview mirror. Catches it because there is no reason Chirrut would make this movement unless communicating something to one of the children.

Baze does not quite swerve into the car beside him on the motorway, but is a close call. The sand, poured directly onto his head, pours right down his forehead, climbs under his t-shirt, and starts to stick. Every movement he makes with his head shakes out another handful of the sand, which finds its way deeper and deeper beneath his clothes.

Baze can already feel the grains that’ve managed to sift all the way down to his underwear, forming a damp crust under his buttocks.

He wants to murder Chirrut, just a little bit, in that moment.

-

When Baze opens his apartment door to find Chirrut, he isn’t all that surprised. Chirrut has never been here before, but the man has ways of finding information that Baze can only wonder at. 

Chirrut pushes his way into Baze’s apartment, unfazed by proprietary. He takes his shoes off at the door, waits for Baze to shove them, neatly, against the wall, before walking, presumably in any direction he deems good. “Kitchen?” Chirrut asks, to which Baze replies by putting a hand on Chirrut’s shoulder, and directing him to the left.

Baze watches as Chirrut locates the kettle, two mugs, and tea, having to fish out the milk from the fridge himself when Chirrut threatens to knock over the box of eggs residing in it.

When Chirrut has made them tea, and they sit on Baze’s couch, Chirrut tilts his head in Baze’s direction. “You have a wife.”

Baze spits out his tea, missing Chirrut’s clothing by a hair’s breadth. “What?”

“You were at the bar,” Chirrut said, “And the bartender asked about your wife.”

“No.” 

Chirrut seems alarmed at Baze’s hasty cutting in, but continues anyway. “He was giving you marriage advice.”

“Because he’s used to seeing men, who have upset their wives.”

Chirrut’s eyebrows twitch, slightly, attempting to pull the pieces together. “Which you have done.” 

“I do not have a wife.”

Again, Chirrut thinks. “An ex-wife?”

“No ex-wife.”

“No wife,” Chirrut repeats, bringing the mug to his lips, but not taking a sip. “Not even a dead one?”

“No.” Then, Baze pauses, catching the strange look on Chirrut’s face. Baze frowned. “You had a wife?”

Chirrut’s lip wobbles, just a little bit. “...Her name was Frances…”

Baze believes him, for almost a full second, before he catches the smile. He might have whacked the man on the head, if he were not scared that Chirrut would pour the scorching tea over Baze’s lap.

“I am angry that you cut your hair,” Chirrut says, a moment later, keeping any trace of forgiveness from his voice.

Baze brings up his hand to his own head, feeling the coarse bristles that now reside there. “I am too old to deal with it anymore.”

“You’re not even thirty,” Chirrut pouts. “I liked it. It was soft, and it felt nice.”

“It made me want to stop kissing you.”

Chirrut opens his mouth to reply, then closes it. “Oh. Well that’s no good.”

Baze feels slightly proud to have won, in whatever sense of the word. “No, it was not.” Baze catches the look on Chirrut’s face and smiles. “Tea, Chirrut.”

Chirrut hands over his mug, less than patient, so Baze can place them on the coffee table, away from harm. 

As soon as Chirrut hears the small chink of mug against wood, he has his hands on Baze’s neck, pulling himself up to Baze’s lips.

-

Baze catches Jyn and Kay crouched behind a corner, peering out at Chirrut’s room. He pinches their ears, lightly, just enough to make them stand up, protesting at his being mean. Baze does not need to ask for them to know what he is thinking.

“We’re not doing anything!” Jyn claims, which Kay backs up with an adamant nod. 

“Where are Cassian and Bodhi?” 

Jyn looks down at the floor, mouth zipped shut. 

“Cassian’s in his bedroom,” Kay blurts, under no illusions that Baze will bring it out of them eventually. Then, Kay points at Chirrut’s room. “Bodhi went in there.”

-

“What?” Baze asks when he opens his eyes to find Chirrut watching him, one morning. Chirrut’s smile (wide, glorious) just grows. 

“I was thinking about your name.”

Baze squints a little. It’s a pretty simple name, as names go. He likes it that way.

“I was thinking about giving you a nickname.”

“Please, no.”

Chirrut laughs, softly, inaudible. Laughing at his own joke, laughing at something Baze cannot even begin to guess at. “Too late,” Chirrut whispers.

Baze cannot help but be infected by Chirrut’s smile, despite knowing that whatever the man has come up with, it will be horrible.

“Baze,” Chirrut says with a laugh, “It sounds like… it sounds like Mayonnaise.”

“No it doesn’t,” Baze says with a groan, knowing that now that Chirrut has decided on this, that it will stick. “False advertising,” he says, hoping to change Chirrut’s mind with a well-timed kiss.

But Chirrut’s smile only grows with the kiss, repeating a nonsensical song about Mayo that he could very well have made up on the spot. “You’re under arrest,” Chirrut says, “For committing a Mayo crime.”

-

Baze finds Bodhi just inside his and Chirrut’s bedroom. Chirrut is currently grinning at a piece of paper in his hand, sat on the edge of their bed as if just risen from a nap. “Baze, read this.”

Baze glances at it, but must take it in his hands and feel the soft bumps to read.

‘To Chirrut from Bodhi, do you like Baze? Yes [] No [] I don’t know []’

Baze too, might grin, if he could not see the expression on Bodhi’s face. “Master Chirrut!” Bodhi shouts, which in itself gains Chirrut’s attention. Bodhi does not shout, does not get angry at anyone but himself. For Chirrut to have garnered his anger means something serious.

“You shouldn’t laugh!” Bodhi clings to Baze’s leg, as if shielding him from Chirrut. “Baze is in love with you!”

Baze puts a hand on Bodhi’s head, petting the hair to calm the boy. He crouches then, putting himself on Bodhi’s level. “He knows, Bodhi.”

Chirrut waves one hand, asking Bodhi to come towards him. The boy looks between Chirrut and Baze, as if asking for permission, so Baze gives it, pushing Bodhi forward.

Chirrut slides a wrapped package from behind him on the bed, waiting for Bodhi to take it from him. “Bodhi,” Chirrut says, in the voice he only reserves for truly serious moments, “Will you please take this to Baze?”

Bodhi carries the package over to Baze, who sits himself on the floor to unwrap it.

“It’s a dictionary,” Bodhi says, as if for Chirrut’s benefit.

Baze is, for once, confused. Most of the time, he can understand Chirrut’s nonsensical presents…

“It was the biggest dictionary in the shop,” Chirrut says, and Baze might have guessed that. It’s huge, and heavy. He’s actually quite proud that Bodhi was able to carry it.

“There’s should be a bookmark.” Chirrut wiggles his fingers, as if turning pages in the air.

Bodhi turns the book towards him, finds the bookmark and opens the page.

‘Churro - noun’ The rest of the definition has been crossed out with biro, an unfamiliar handwriting squeezing words to the margin. ‘Husband, who is tired of pretending he does not know Baze is a sentimental old man.’ 

Bodhi squints at it and says “I don’t understand” under his breath.

“Bodhi,” Chirrut asks, “What does his face look like?”

Bodhi looks up and gasps. “Baze! Chirrut, what did you say to Baze? Baze, don’t cry.” Bodhi pats Baze’s head as Baze had done to him, smoothing the long, tangled hair straight. 

“I’m not crying, Bodhi.” Bodhi tries to wipe Baze’s eyes with the sleeve of his cardigan, but Baze catches him before he can take out an eye. “Bodhi, why don’t you see if Cassian and Jyn want to have their snacks now.”

“Will Chirrut stop being mean to you?”

Baze nods. It does not convince Bodhi, but he sends a warning glance at Chirrut, which proves to console the boy a little, and he closes the door firmly behind himself. 

“I’m not crying.”

Chirrut nods. “Come here and prove it.”

Baze comes to sit before Chirrut, allowing the man to reach out and feel for his eyes. Dry, now. They’d glistened, maybe, with emotion, for a half second, but he wasn’t crying. Chirrut hums, displeased not to have further reason to make fun of Baze. 

“You should know better than to make fun of Bodhi. He believes anything you tell him.”

“Which makes him so fun to tease. The others are so hardened…” Chirrut smoothes his hand from Baze’s cheeks to his hair, fingers filtering through the waves, finding small tangles and de-knotting them.

“So you’ve known since the beginning,” Baze asks, hand on the dictionary in his lap.

“My Baze, calling me a nickname? It took me by surprise, and then I wondered how long you could keep it up.”

Baze hummed, thinking back. “Twenty years of this shit.”

Chirrut nods. “Twenty years.”

“If that’s not dedication…”

“Oh Mr Malbus, I recognise your dedication.”

“Putting up with the nicknames, having to pretend you had a dead wife, not allowing me to cut my own hair…”

“Not allowing you to cut your beautiful, beautiful hair…” Chirrut tugs at Baze’s hair, softly, as if weighing it. “I felt so helpless.”

Baze can picture himself in Chirrut’s old apartment, watching himself in the mirror as he cut the hair off in angry slashes, then buzzed on the smallest setting, the one Chirrut left his clippers on. 

He remembers coming out to a crying Chirrut, who had refused to say what was wrong, who had kicked Baze out.

He remembers Chirrut in Baze’s sitting room, sat on Baze’s couch, drinking tea…

Chirrut sighs; evidently in one of his rare, pensive moods. “I thought that I had done something to you. And so I felt helpless, and alone, and I did not want to lose you.”

“Which is why you spent the next two decades pretending you were a widower? Because you didn’t want to push me away?”

Chirrut grins. “Precisely. Any man who can deal with that, will not be quick to leave for my other sillinesses.” 

“How sagely.” 

Baze has learnt how better to manage his hair now, long and greying though it is. To think that it was the root of so much of his suffering… 

Chirrut laughs, abrupt, before catching himself and attempting to stifle it. 

“What?” Baze asks, hesitant and ever-so-slightly afraid.

“I remembered why I was so angry at you, when you shaved.”

“And that is something to laugh at?”

Chirrut is very obviously attempting to school his features, but to no avail.

“I was so upset, Baze. I had just thought of the best nickname for you, and then you ruined it by shaving.”

-

Chirrut likes to rub his cheek against Baze’s shaved head. When asked, once, Chirrut had said that he had liked the feel. Baze had huffed, but he had to admit that he liked any excuse for Chirrut to touch him. 

Still, with appearances to put up, he moaned, and he sighed. “Chirrut, if you do not stop, you will rub until I go bald.” 

-

“Kay,” Bodhi asks when the kid hands him a handful of grapes from a carton, “What does it mean when a dad gives another dad a dictionary?”

Cassian and Jyn frown at one another, turning to Kay too, deferring to the older kid’s infinite knowledge. Kay hands each of their pseudo-siblings a carton of apple juice, with their thinking-face on.

“I need more information than that. Did it have a dedication?”

Bodhi looks blank for a moment.

“Did Baze write anything at the beginning of the book?”

Bodhi looks even more confused. “It was Chirrut, he gave the book to Baze.”

Kay almost looks worried by this; they can compute a sarcastic ‘read more’ from Baze, but there seems to be no reason for the opposite. Kay had initially assumed it was a talking dictionary, then had thought it was likely one in braille, after remembering Baze had once told them of how Chirrut had insisted that the pair sit together for three days straight to listen to the entire audio dictionary Baze had found at a car boot sale once. 

“A dedication is like… a thank you note, but a you’re welcome note that you write,” Cassian said as Kay fell into one of their thoughts. “You put them at the beginning of a present, so that the book means something.”

“Oh.” Bodhi nods his understanding. “I didn’t see the beginning. Chirrut said the dictionary started at ‘C’.”

“‘C’?” Jyn echoed, “Why?”

“Because Chirrut is very egotistical,” Kay said, frankly, Jyn and Cassian nodding.

“That means selfish,” Cassian translated for Bodhi.

Bodhi ‘oh-ed’, then joined them in nodding. “He is. Chirrut was making fun of Baze, and Baze started to cry. I think it’s because Chirrut crossed out Baze’s favourite food.”

This didn’t make much sense for the other kids, Bodhi knew, so he rewound himself. “Chirrut crossed out ‘churros’, and then Baze started to cry, so I think Baze’s favourite food is churros, and Chirrut was being a bully.”

Kay tapped their chin, watching the middle distance in the way they knew made them look like an adult. “Yes, I think that might be accurate. Well done, Bodhi.”

It was Jyn’s turn to ‘ooh’, impressed by the tag-team thinking session. “Then let’s help Baze forget all about Chirrut, and make him feel happier again!”

-

“Oh?” Baze asks, not really wanting to know what horrific nickname Chirrut had come up with, but morbidly curious.

“Mr. Sasquatch Malbus.” 

Baze looks up at Chirrut, face blank.

“You kicked me out because of that?”

Apparently being reminded of this is too much for Chirrut, who breaks into a grin.

“Do we need to go through the dictionary again, Chirrut?” Baze asks, “Because I do not think it is me who struggles with nicknames.” 

“Perhaps that is why we are destined for one another.” Chirrut smiles, pinching Baze’s cheeks. “Because we’re both inept at it.”

“ _ I  _ never claimed to be.”

“Twenty years of unrelenting, Baze. I think that that is a claim in itself.”

Baze hums, knowing better than to talk back. 

“You and your humming,” Chirrut chides. “The silent Baze Malbus.”

“That’s what you like about me, and you know it.”

Chirrut shrugs with a self-deprecating smile, before falling quiet to allow Baze to lean up and kiss him. 

Soft, and quiet, and dedicated Baze Malbus.

-

Baze catches the smell a half second before the fire alarm starts to wail. He jumps up, from where he is still on the floor, pulling Chirrut from the bed with him. The smell is burning oil; which means the kitchen. He looks at Chirrut.

“Go, I’m fine, Baze.”

Baze frowns, but grabs a handkerchief and shoves it at Chirrut’s face. “Stay, Chirrut.”

Baze did not forbid the children much, but as he entered the kitchen to a cloud of black smoke, the four kids surrounding the cooker in various states of panic, Baze considered whether those parents who swaddled their children were not right. 

While Jyn and Cassian were actively attempting to put out whatever it was they were doing, wet teatowels and all, Kay was attempting to explain the process of combustion to a bawling Bodhi. 

“-and now he’s going to  _ die _ ,” Baze catches Bodhi crying, absolutely beside himself despite Kay’s unrelenting chemistry lesson. 

Once Baze has scanned the room for injuries (thankfully none,) Baze’s first instinct is to open every door and window, allowing the smoke to clear from the room. He then shoves the children away from the cooker, takes the wok from the hob and navigates it outside, where he dumps the smoking oil onto a patch of dirt, just outside the door.

There’s a moment of quiet as all watch the piece of charcoal cool in the evening air, before Baze turns back to the kitchen, livid. 

The children nominate Cassian as their spokesperson by quick default, and he is pushed before them as their sacrifice. 

Before Cassian can speak, Chirrut, now in possession of his cane, enters, sniffing the air with a sour look. 

“It looks as bad as it smells,” Baze answers preemptively. “What were you trying to do?”

“We were trying to help,” Cassian says, admirably solid, apparently taking courage from his siblings’ fear. “Bodhi was scared that you were going to leave Chirrut, and us, because he doesn’t love you.”

If Baze were able to, he’d direct a ‘you see’ look at Chirrut, but by the man’s expression, that doesn’t seem necessary. 

“And so you thought you would… burn down the house to keep me here?”

“No!” Bodhi exclaims, a fresh wave of tears attached, “Because you like churros and I wanted to make you something nice so that even if you were gonna divorce Chirrut, you would still love me and Kay and Jyn and Cassian and still want to be our kind-of-dad!” 

Baze looks out at the still-slightly-smouldering piece of charcoal outside, then at the kitchen counter, covered in mixing bowls, flour, sugar, and pre-cooked batter. 

Baze looks back to Chirrut, then to the kids, and his tense shoulders drop.

“I’m not leaving you,” he says, encompassing both Chirrut and the children in the meaning. “Bodhi, Chirrut doesn’t really have a dead wife, he just likes to play pretend, sometimes, to make me feel bad for something I did once.”

Bodhi’s expression doesn’t change. “Playing pretend doesn’t make it not mean for you.”

“It doesn’t, and you’re a good kid to know that. But your Baze has known Chirrut for years and years and years, and has grown used to playing pretend with him.” Baze nods, then crouches to allow Bodhi to approach for a hug. Once Bodhi is wrapped in Baze’s arms, he pats the child’s back, consoling. “But do you know what?”

Bodhi shakes his head.

“I’m glad I have you here to protect me. I won’t ever leave Chirrut, but I won’t ever leave you, either.”

Baze feels Bodhi’s hands grab the back of his shirt as he attempts to hug the breath out of Baze with his tiny arms. Then, he pushes Baze back and faces Chirrut.

There’s a pause as Chirrut attempts to work out what is happening from sound alone, not wanting to interrupt to have the scene described to him, and to ruin it from the children. Chirrut is surprised, therefore, when Bodhi barrels into his legs, squeezing them with as much gusto as he had spared for Baze.

“I’m sorry, Chirrut, for calling you a bully.”

Chirrut blinks, then, after a moment, crouches. “You have nothing to be sorry about. If anything, any protector of Baze is owed my greatest gratitude.”

Chirrut pats Bodhi’s head, his expression in that moment, of tender appreciation for the child, worth more to Baze than any number of smiles.

With Bodhi now occupied with keeping Chirrut in his bear-hug, Baze scuttles Jyn into his own arms, allowing Kay and Cassian the personal space they prefer, but including them in the love with soft pats each. 

“So to recap,” Kay says, “Baze and Chirrut aren’t getting a divorce, Baze isn’t dying, and we’re not in trouble for setting the kitchen on fire?”

Cassian groans.

“Oh no, you’re all definitely grounded,” Chirrut says, chirpy, “Thank you for reminding me, Kay!” 

-

Baze ends the children’s month-long grounding with a brunch feast that makes even Kay’s eyes glitter. The spread likely contains more calories than Bodhi has ever consumed in his life, everything on the table having been covered in sugar, fried, or both, but Baze thinks that the children deserve it for their unintentionally stopping Chirrut from ever bringing up his dead wife ever again.

Taking centre stage are, of course, churros; half glittering in powdered sugar and cinnamon, the other beside a chocolate dip (dairy free for Bodhi.) 

It seems to be an unsaid, family-wide decision to attack the churros first, each biting into the crispy pastry with a quietly satisfying crunch. 

Chirrut nods, consideringly, before standing, going to the fridge and locating a jar. He sits back down, unscrews the lid, and dips his churro into a chorus of “Chirrut, no!”

Chirrut takes out his churro, to the horror of all those watching, and takes a bite. 

“Chirrut,” Bodhi says, sounding slightly scarred, “That’s…”

“Mayonnaise,” Chirrut says before Bodhi can. Then he hums, still chewing. 

Kay looks like they want to retch, putting down their own churro as if it has been tainted through some sort of visual osmosis. “That cannot taste good.” 

“Mmm,” Chirrut says, consideringly… “Yes, no, Kay is right, this does not match.” He sticks out his tongue with a loud ‘bleugh’, which makes Jyn and Bodhi laugh, the former grabbing the jar of mayonnaise to dip her own churro in. 

Jyn takes a bite, chewing with her face screwed up, making audible noises of disgust, but swallows anyway, shaking her head as she does so. 

This only serves to make Bodhi curious, so he too reaches out for the jar… until Baze grabs his hand, and simply shakes his head, which the kid seems more than thankful about. 

Bodhi’s expression makes Cassian laugh; a rare occurrence that makes Baze feel like his entire being is warm. 

When Baze looks over to Chirrut, he can remember the first time he saw him in that bar, a cocky young man making stupid puns. He can remember the feeling of anxiety, of his stomach plummeting, wondering how the hell he was supposed to reply. Wondering what he was allowed to say, wondering what he could say to make the attractive (interested) stranger stay. 

After a moment’s pause, Baze had opted not to say anything. He had simply waited to see how the stranger would react. Cruel, perhaps, but better than throwing back some tired line, or getting wrapped up in whether he was supposed to sound sympathetic. 

There had been a fairly significant moment before the stranger had turned around, obviously searching for a friend that had done their wingman duties and retired for their own pleasure. Baze then waits a beat longer before saying “has that line ever worked for you?”

It had made Chirrut grin in that wide, incredible way, and it had made Baze thrill to have caused it. 

“Just once,” Chirrut had said, sitting himself on the stool next to Baze. His tone, at once confident and coupled with a sense of self-consciousness, drained Baze of the anxiety he usually felt in situations like these. He felt like he could read this stranger, read his thoughts. 

Baze hmm-ed, taking a sip of his drink. “That’s very hopeful of you.”

“Is it?” Chirrut faced the bar, then offered a hand in Baze’s direction. “I’m Chirrut.”

“Baze.”

“Baze…” Chirrut repeated, “Did you know, Baze, that you have a beautiful voice?”

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> at the supermarket:  
> baze: 1... 2... 3... okay, we've got everyone.  
> chirrut: 1... 2... 3.... yep, let's go.  
> at home:  
> baze: where tf is Cassian? 1... bodhi, 2... jyn, 3... fuck  
> chirrut: ??? 1... bodhi... 2... kay, 3... fUck
> 
> (or, i kept thinking there were only 3 kids and kept getting surprised there were 4.) 
> 
>  
> 
> literally everything silly and stupid came from a weird injoke between myself and @churrochirrut on the tumbles.
> 
> follow me on tumblr.. @bazemayonnaise


End file.
